This Isn't Me
by orangeflavor
Summary: "There's nothing uglier than self-righteousness.  And we were rife with it." - She hadn't left the hospital in 14 months.  This wasn't the Hermione she remembered being.
1. Session 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

Author's Note: I'd had this idea rolling around for quite a while but I wanted to pump out a couple new chapters to my story Secret Burdens because I had been on hiatus for a few months. Now that I'm slowly catching up with that though I decided to put this one to paper. Believe me, there is more to this story than just this first chapter. (Great, now I have two open stories to work on.) Anyway, this is set post-hogwarts and post-war but disregards book seven. Harry's side won but with tremendous costs, specifically to Hermione, as you will find out. It's now several years after Hogwarts. And don't worry, I didn't upload the wrong chapter, this one is supposed to be titled "Session 4". All will be explained. Please, enjoy.

This Isn't Me

"Session 4"

_She hadn't left the hospital in 14 months. This wasn't the Hermione she remembered being. _

"Is there something in particular you'd like to talk about, Ms. Granger?'

The man who had asked the question sat comfortably in a lounge chair across the room. His legs were crossed, his arms along the armrests. His skin was dark and rough, and he wore his hair shorn close to his head. Wearing a dark green jumper, his broad shoulders stretched across the width of his chair.

It was a scene Hermione was growing tired of. She scratched at her neck swiftly, at the short, wily hairs resting along the nape. She jerked her head and shoulders in a quick absent-minded shrug. "Not really, no."

"Am I to pick the topic again today?"

Hermione sat across from the man, straight against the back of her chair. She had her hair pulled back in a sloppy bun, short strands falling from it to sweep in front of her eyes until she yanked them back out of her face. "Why don't you take a crack at it?" she answered, waving her hand toward him.

The man nodded, folding his hands together. "Okay. I'd like to hear about your parents then."

Hermione snorted. "Yeah, me too. Next."

The man cocked his head as he urged her, "Ms. Granger, you'll need to speak about it eventually. That's why we have these sessions."

"No," she intoned, "we have these sessions because Ron and Harry don't trust me anymore. And the hospital likes to have patients from the tabloids. Publicity hooks the customers."

"You believe St. Mungo's is milking this situation for the public attention?" he probed.

Sighing and shifting her weight in the chair, she replied, "I don't believe that it was their initial intent. But now that I'm here it only serves to highlight their recovery ward. And the board of healers knows that." She began fingering the edge of her beige sweater.

"Yes, I agree with you on that. However, do you honestly believe that anyone, either the hospital directors or society at large wanted to see one of the Phoenixes committed to the-"

"Don't call me that, Stark," Hermione interrupted. Her eyes had snapped up to lock with his gaze. "Just...don't call me that."

Dr. Stark was surprised to find her gaze laced with shame. He raised a brow. "Why not? You've been officially recognized as a Phoenix by the Ministry, the newspapers. Regardless of the events that occurred after the honoring ceremony, you are still considered a war-hero, Ms. Granger."

"I'm none of that," she said as she lowered her gaze to her fidgeting hands. "Ron and Harry are the true war-heroes. They deserved the Phoenix title. Remus, Tonks, Arthur, Ginny, Kingsley. They all deserved it. Hell," she laughed, lifting her head so that he could see her damp eyes, "even Malfoy deserved it more than me. The scared-shitless git. But apparently fear is still a good enough reason to turn someone."

"You don't feel you deserve the honor? Or the Order of Merlin you received alongside Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley?"

"There are a lot of things I don't deserve, Stark. And the public would finally understand that if Harry and Ron weren't so good at covering up. They know how to pull the wool over the cameras." She turned her head so that she could look around the room, taking in the glass coffee table on her left and the window just above it. She thought she could see the beginnings of rain against the windowpane.

Stark leaned toward her as he questioned, "And that makes it easier?"

"No," she sighed, turning once more to look at him. "It makes it harder."

"Why?"

"Because I know what it takes out of them to keep the cameras away from me. I know what it takes from them to...to see me like this." Her voice was almost to a whisper and Stark had to strain his ears slightly to pick up her words. Wiping at her noise quickly, Hermione went on. "They really are too good for me. Too good for anyone really. They've seen things and felt things I wouldn't wish on anyone. And still, look at them." She motioned to the air with her hands. "Some of the most compassionate, well-adjusted people you could ever find."

"And what does that make you?"

Hermione pursued her lips. "Unworthy."

"Of what? Their friendship?"

"Their...belief in me." She rubbed her arm unconsciously as she spoke. "They think I can actually get better. I can't even remember how long I've been here. The days merge together in such confusing memories I don't even know what's mine and what's..."

"The anadephamine?"

Hermione's eyes were dark upon the doctor's, piercing in an almost accusatory way. "Yes," she answered slowly.

"You're here so we can fix that, Ms. Granger." He hoped he'd said that comfortingly enough.

Shaking her head slightly, she glanced away. "There is no fixing me, Stark."

"Yes, there is." This time, he said it a little stronger, and it made Hermione look back at him. "You already know the magic behind the therapy, the daily potions, the physical aspect of extracting the anadephamine from your bloodstream."

"Yeah," she chuckled. "It's like feeling your veins turning inside out."

"I suppose it would feel odd."

"Try 'painful'," she said with narrowed eyes. "It consumes me. I can't focus on anything else," she breathed through tight lips.

Stark motioned toward her with his hand. "And that's where the therapy sessions come in. I'm here to re-center that focus you're looking for. I'm here to help you realign your memories, regain some control over your cognitive functions so that when you're released, you won't return to pain-relieving potions."

Her brows furrowed as she looked away again, as though that could relieve some of the shame she felt. "It's not...that easy, you know."

"It's not supposed to be," he answered simply.

"There are still some things...," she gripped her arms, shrinking herself in the chair, "...some things I don't want to revisit."

"Like your parents?" he offered.

At that mention her eyes steeled a bit and she sat up straighter against her chair. "Stop pushing it, Stark," she said lowly.

"Then how about Neville, huh? Why don't we talk about him?" Stark leaned back in his chair, refolding his hands.

Her nostrils flared momentarily. "I'm not there yet either."

"You'll have to be there someday."

"Not today, Stark," she said stiffly.

Dr. Stark sighed as he settled into the cushions of his chair. He sat there staring at her for a few moments until he spoke again. "Do you remember the last time Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley came to visit you?"

She sighed, exasperated. Scratching her neck momentarily, Hermione nonchalantly shrugged. "I don't know. A couple weeks, maybe."

The doctor looked at her for a moment before continuing. "And do you recall what you spoke about?"

Hermione jerked her head shortly in a shake. "Not really. They didn't stay long. I don't think they like being around me anymore."

"And why is that?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly as she looked up at him, tugging on the bottom of her sweater. "Haven't we been through this before?'

The man leaned back. "I'm curious as to what went on during this last visit. Indulge me."

She sighed, wiping a hand over her face. "They don't like me when...when I'm like this."

"Like what?"

"Like this," she said, raising her hands to motion at herself. "Jittery and...needy...and...," Hermione looked away, staring at the fake plant in the corner of the room, "...and slipping."

"Slipping?" The man cocked his head in question.

"God," Hermione breathed, "I can't even remember simple arithmancy equations anymore." She pressed a hand to her head, as though waiting for the information to seep through her skull and into her hand, so she could read it in her palm and know again. "Elementary potions ingredients, simple transfiguration spells, I mean...I can't even focus enough to apparate."

"You know the wards here prevent apparation."

"Yeah, I know that, Stark." Hermione dropped her hand, frustrated. "I mean, the energy, the magic. I can't focus anything in here."

Dr. Stark folded his arms loosely as he looked at her. "Then tell me what you do remember. What do you remember saying to Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley?"

Hermione sighed and looked at him, irritated. "Ron said something about Ginny's engagement party."

"An engagement party? That's wonderful. When is it?"

"I think he said sometime in February."

"And they were inviting you?"

She snorted. "Yeah, as if you guys would let me off the leash for a holiday."

"You know what happened the last time we gave you a day pass, Ms. Granger." Dr. Stark leveled his eyes on her.

Hermione waved her hand. "Yeah, I get it. So what's their point in telling me then, right?"

"Well, you were happy to hear the news, weren't you?"

"Sure." Hermione shrugged.

"Do you remember what you felt when Mr. Weasley told you the news?"

"I guess I was happy."

"You mean you don't remember?"

Hermione sighed and started picking at her nails. "I said I guess I was happy. Can I go now?"

Dr. Stark glanced at the clock atop the glass coffee table to his right, then back to Hermione. "No. We have 17 more minutes."

"We could spend it in silence."

"I'd rather listen to you. So what were you thinking when Mr. Weasley informed you of Ms. Weasley's engagement?"

"What I'm always thinking," she answered lowly, her hand unconsciously moving to rub against her knee, feeling the unnaturally rough ridges of skin there. She closed her eyes.

"And what is that, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione flickered her eyes open. "How much I need some anadephamine."

"You mean 'want'."

"I mean 'need'," she almost snapped back, stopping the slow movements her hand was making across her knee.

Dr. Stark sighed and moved to uncross his legs. He rested his elbows atop his thighs and clasped his hands together. "So when did you feel the pain last?" he asked as he motioned to her leg.

"All the time," she whispered back.

"I mean the real pain."

Hermione scoffed. "You only think you know real pain. I feel it all the time. And it's in more than just these scars," she snapped, reaching down to touch the stretch of scars running from her lower thigh down to her calf, a mass of ridged lines and uneven skin that was sometimes red and sometimes purple in spots.

Dr. Stark stared at Hermione, glancing over her scarred leg and back to her defiant eyes. He sighed, and looked down a moment to the floor, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ms. Granger," he began slowly, "Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley haven't been to see you in 5 months." He looked back up at her to see her narrow her eyes at him. "Ms. Weasley's engagement already passed."

Hermione glared at him at first, and opened her mouth to object, respond that she had just seen them when she stopped. She turned her head to look away from him, back at that stupid plant in the corner. She stared it down, moving her lips sometimes, but never opening her mouth to speak. She pulled her hand up from her knee and gripped tightly to her arm.

Dr. Stark could see her taking in deep breathes, her chest slowly rising heavily. When she looked back at him he could see dampness in the corners of her eyes and a soft, shaking smile.

"I wish sometimes God had given me cancer or something instead," she laughed softly, then wiped a hand roughly across her eyes.

Dr. Stark stared at her silently, watched her rub her forearms.

"It would have been nicer of her."

"Her?"

"God."

Dr. Stark smirked. "You refer to God as a 'she'?"

Hermione shrugged half-heartedly. "It makes it easier to blame her. I usually dislike women."

"And you blame God for what happened to you?"

"Well, firstly I blame Rodolphus Lestrange for the curse. And then I blame God for everything else." Hermione looked up at the ceiling, shaking her head. Dr. Stark could see the wetness growing in her eyes. She scoffed. "What am I saying?" Hermione looked back down at the floor, wiping a hand down her face. "I did everything else."

Dr. Stark unclasped his hands and leaned back in his chair. "What else?" he asked.

Hermione still stared at the floor, and her hands were twitching as they folded together. She sniffed, then looked back up at him. She was dry-eyed.

"I used to be smart, you know?"

Dr. Stark nodded, smiling softly. "I know."

Hermione pulled her unscarred knee up in the chair to rest against her chest. "The brains behind the operation. Except every other part of the operation came out fine."

Dr. Stark shook his head. "Not every part, unfortunately."

Hermione stared silently at him.

"Do you want to talk about your parents?"

"No."

"Okay. What about Neville?"

"Not really."

"Well, you have to pick one of them."

Hermione sniffed and looked away. "Can't we talk about Hogwarts? About when I used to be in school and never heard of Unforgivables?"

Dr. Stark leaned his head in her direction. "Even then you knew, didn't you?"

Hermione let out a soft laugh. "Yeah, even then." She looked back at him. "I always knew, even when Harry and Ron were blissfully sleeping tucked in their beds at night. Hogwarts was never really safe." Hermione clenched her teeth together. "We were so stupid."

"You were kids."

"We were arrogant, useless, blundering children who did nothing but trip over ourselves in some ridiculously valiant effort to save the world. There's nothing uglier than self-righteousness. And we were rife with it."

"The newspapers say otherwise."

"The newspapers didn't know shit," Hermione bit out. "Heroes. That's what they called us. Heroes." Hermione glared at him, shaking her head. "They didn't know shit."

"So what really happened?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, breathing in thickly as she considered a way out of this conversation. "I pick Neville."

Dr. Stark leaned back in his chair. "Okay. Tell me about Neville."

Hermione sighed, leaning back in the chair herself. She tapped her fingers anxiously against the armrest while she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

Dr. Stark raised his eyebrows in expectation, motioning for her to continue. She ground her teeth in return, but turned fully to him to begin her story, knowing now that there was no escape from regrets.

"He wasn't actually supposed to be in Squad 6 the night of the breach."

Dr. Stark furrowed his brows. "Really? I didn't hear about this before."

"You wouldn't have. They didn't put that in the papers."

"Why?"

She folded her arms over herself. "He was supposed to be out on assignment."

Dr. Stark cocked his head in question.

"Squad 3."

It took Dr. Stark a moment, as he eyed Hermione sitting there on the chair, before the recognition dawned on him. "You mean...the Lestrange place."

Hermione nodded mutely.

"So Neville was supposed to be on the reconnaissance mission to the Lestrange home?"

Hermione rubbed her cheek roughly. "Yeah. Squad 3 was supposed to be him, Remus, Kingsley and Fred. All their mission entailed was scouting. Observation. We'd had suspicions that Ginny was being held there when she disappeared two weeks earlier. You know, when the first safehouse was taken?"

Dr. Stark nodded, signaling her to continue.

She dropped her hand to finger the edge of her sweater again. "Well, needless to say she wasn't there. Anyway, that's all their mission was. Live reconnaissance. We didn't even trust in planting ward bugs. If they'd had a Switchtail's spell on the gates it would have gone off immediately."

"You delve into the mechanics so easily."

"This was my job, Stark. Keep everyone alive. This was stuff I had to think of on a daily basis." She shifted in her seat, placing her leg back down to the floor. "May I continue?"  
He gestured toward her. "Please."

Hermione crossed her arms. "Well, I'm just trying to explain the simplicity of the mission. Live reconnaissance. No ward bugs, no trackers, no spellhitchers. No planted spells of any kind. We couldn't leave a trace. We had to observe before we could get the go ahead. But even with that Neville didn't want to go."

"Could you blame him?"

"No," she bit out harshly. "I don't blame him for it. I just wish he could see how stupid he was in hindsight."

"For not going?"

"Yeah. For not going. He said he couldn't face Lestrange yet. And me being the sensitive idiot I was said I'd find a replacement."

"You were the squad strategist. He went to the right person."

Hermione leaned forward suddenly, a finger raised. "Yes, but I should have told him to suck it up. Be a man. We weren't there to baby anyone. It was war. And I'd be damned if I let one person's feelings take reign over a battle outcome."

"But you didn't."

Hermione silenced, leaning back in her chair slowly. "No, I didn't."

Dr. Stark continued to watch Hermione as she slowly took in a breath. After a few moments of silence he motioned toward her again. "What _did_ you do then?"

Hermione glanced at him. "I switched him out with Alicia."

"So Neville was at Grimmauld Place when the Deatheaters breached? When he shouldn't have even been there?"

Hermione gripped the arms of her chair tightly beneath her, her chin nodding silently of its own accord. She could feel the tightness in her throat growing.

Dr. Stark leaned forward, his eyes searching hers. "Where you killed him?"

She nodded.


	2. Session 7

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

Author's Note: I apologize that this is nearly three months after I published the first chapter. It's getting extremely difficult for me to write lately because of my schedule, and I feel even worse for any of you who still read Secret Burdens. I'm getting to both of these as fast as I can. I'm also writing the chapters for This Isn't Me longer than I usually write chapters for that reason. I know I'm slow, but believe me, I'm a writer who never leaves something unfinished. So if you're willing to stick around until the end, I promise I will reach it. Thanks readers, and enjoy.

This Isn't Me

"Session 7"

_"The only reason I'm here awaiting trail instead of in a holding cell is because no one can say 'no' to Harry."_

Hermione pushed open the door to Dr. Stark's office. She stood in the threshold, taking in the room which had slowly grown more familiar to her over the weeks. To her right was Dr. Stark's brown leather armchair. Just next to it was his dark mahogany desk with curving table legs and neatly rolled and sealed parchment scrolls lining the edge. He always kept two quills in the left corner but she had yet to see him use them. Usually, he simply watches and listens to her in their discussions. Only a couple times has she seen him jot a note down as she exited the room, and even then he pulls a Muggle pen from his pocket to do so. Hermione remembered him mentioning once that he keeps his chair beside the desk and not behind it so that he is more connected to his patients. She remembered thinking what bullshit that was.

Hermione sighed and drew her attention to the center of the room, where the glass coffee table rested with a Muggle clock atop the surface. Just behind the coffee table was the large window to the outside. Dr. Stark did not have his window charmed to always present sunny weather like the others in the hospital. She asked him why once, in an effort to detract the conversation from herself. He had answered, "How can I bring my patients back into reality when I bar them from it here?" She thinks he's just too stuck in his Muggle ways. Not that she blames him really.

Just past the window, in the corner between the coffee table and Stark's leather chair, was the fake plant, or tree rather, she had grown to detest, if only because it served as a great receiving end for her glares when Stark angered her enough. Looking at it, she cocked her head a bit to take it in and concluded that it had to be a silk ficus. How very typical. Glancing away from the ficus, Hermione turned to face the plush purple armchair she had grown accustomed to. Placing her cane ahead of her steps, Hermione slowly pushed herself into a tread toward the armchair. The pain in her leg was less when she used the cane to help distribute the weight, especially if she had just taken an Extraction Potion. The potion usually took about two hours to finish its route through her bloodstream and having more than one in a 24 hour span could cause blood-thinning. She preferred that the nurses bring it to her at night so she could attend physical therapy in a bit more comfort. Now that she was walking though, they wanted her to take the extraction potions in the day because she had to learn to deal with the pain while walking or her muscles would not strengthen correctly. Luckily, her sessions with Dr. Stark were conducted later in the afternoon when the effects of the potion have relatively worn off. Now all that remains is the fading soreness just past her knee.

Finally, Hermione made it over to where the chair sat. Setting her cane to rest along the side of the chair, she raised her hand to brush the plush arm. She had grown increasingly affectionate toward the chair, even as she hated the sessions. She supposed it was the color. Purple was a color she was relatively unrelated to. It was not a Hogwarts House color. Gryffindor could not lay claim to it, nor Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or Slytherin. Hermione liked that idea. Maybe it was also because there was no spell she could recall having the distinct color of purple. Most of the dark spells she had come across in her research during the war had carried a blue or red tint to them, perhaps having to do with the winter solstice and autumn equinox when the spells were at their most potent. And she had seen enough Avada Kedavras to know the color of that one. Perhaps she liked the color of the armchair because her mother's favorite flowers were sunflowers, and she wouldn't have to think of her mother's flowers when she saw purple. Whatever the reason, she felt the most disconnection with the color purple. It was comforting. Something that couldn't tie her to a past better off forgotten.

"Have you been waiting long?"

Hermione turned at the question to find Dr. Stark striding into the office and placing a thin manilla folder atop his desk. He glanced at her expectantly.

She blinked at him a moment, before shaking her head and answering, "No, I just walked in myself."

"Good," he nodded, mostly to himself. "I apologize for being a bit late." He started to lower himself into the leather chair beside the desk.

Hermione smirked in response. "Fine by me, if that shaves off a couple minutes of our session." She swiveled herself so that she could plop onto the seat of her own chair.

Stark had stopped mid-sit at her remark, before he smirked in return and continued lowering himself to the seat beneath him. "The chairman wanted to hear how you were progressing."

Her smirk vanished. "And what did you tell him?" she questioned.

Shrugging one shoulder, he answered, "Well, I told him that progression is usually not seen this early on, especially when one is still participating in physical therapy."

"Why would physical therapy have any effect on our sessions?"

"For one thing, your body is focused on the release of pain and pressure on certain muscles," he started, moving his hands around. "When your body is weary of such activities it is less sharp and aware, so that certain memories, while being related to the therapist, are not fully reflected upon or understood in the same way that one with a healthy and rested mind and body would." He tapped at his temple while he continued, "It's all interconnected. What we do with our bodies has a strong connection to how our minds process and respond to stimulus. It's the basic principle behind Muggle torture for instance."

Hermione shook her head. "No, it's the basic principle behind any form of torture, magic included."

"I suppose that's true," Stark conceded. "It is also harder to conduct these sessions when one is still in physical therapy because the memory of the incident which lead to this pain and scarring is more present, and so patients tend to shut off their experience entirely as a way to deal with the physical pain."

She chuckled softly. "Sounds about right."

Dr. Stark rested his elbows along the arms of his chair as he settled back. "So Ms. Granger, how has your physical therapy been so far?"

"Well," she sighed, "since I've been walking these last..." Hermione stopped, looking down to her leg with furrowed brows. She looked back up at Dr. Stark, asking slowly, "Eight? Is it eight months now?"

Dr. Stark nodded silently.

She nodded as well, to assure herself more than him. "Yes. Eight months, that's right."

He smiled at her grasp at time, however shaky it might be. I was an improvement nonetheless.

Hermione shifted in her chair slightly, as she continued, "So, these last eight months have been rough but I can walk by myself with the cane now. Sometimes, it's difficult to...uh...to put my shoes on," she said lowly, hating how pathetic it sounded.

"Why?" he urged her.

"It's..." she paused, grumbling. "It's hard to bend my knee enough sometimes to put my shoe on, without it hurting too much. I know it sounds pathetic. Just think of the headlines: 'Hermione Granger, smartest witch of her age, can't tie her own laces anymore'," she scoffed.

"There's nothing wrong with that," he reassured her. "It will take time before you can fully use your right leg again. It's better than sitting in a wheelchair for the rest of your life."

"You don't know that. Have you lived your life in a wheelchair before?" she pointed out.

"No," he sighed. "But I'm sure anyone who has would trade you any day."

"Maybe," she answered, "but I wouldn't want to trade them. And not because I wouldn't want my life to be lived out in a wheelchair."

"Why not then?" he pressed.

Leveling her eyes on him, she responded, "Because I wouldn't wish this on anyone. Sometimes I wake up mornings wondering where I've gone. I...don't recognize the room and I instinctively reach for my wand beside the table to find it missing." Her voice was beginning to shake. "I've even had panic attacks because of that. I don't really remember what happened but sometimes the nurses tell me about it." She looked away, rubbing her hands down her forearms.

"What does it feel like to wake up not knowing where you are?"

Hermione snapped her gaze back to him. "Sometimes I wake up to hear the screaming was coming from me." Placing her hands to her temples, she continued shakily, "I don't always realize that I'm here. And I...uh...mix up my surroundings, like.. some of those mornings I think I'm back at the Lestrange place, or I get flashbacks of...when Greyback had me." There was a moment of silence before she lowered her hands, sniffing sharply as she raised her gaze to Stark's. "Do you have to record these sessions?"

Stark didn't push the subject, knowing they would return sometime. Instead, he allowed her to lead this session, give her some sense of control in a world where it was denied her. "Well, yes actually," he conceded. "However, only if I release the copies to another licensed therapist can someone else listen to them. Or if you give permission," he added, waving a hand toward her. "If you're concerned with anyone else hearing what goes on in this room, don't be," he assured her, smiling slightly. "The only reason I would have to reveal our sessions is if I thought you posed any current threat to your own health. You haven't been a threat in quite some time, Ms. Granger."

Hermione chuckled softly, pulling her unscarred left leg up to rest beneath her. "No, I haven't. Regardless, everyone already knows what I've done in the war. The papers made sure of that. There's really nothing more they can charge me with."

"You understand that this therapy is conducted as a strategy of your lawyer to lessen your sentencing, correct?"

"I'm not stupid, Stark," Hermione intoned. "I know that, but I also know that it's banking on the sympathy of the public, which for my case has been lacking." She sighed as she rubbed a hand down her face. "The only reason I'm here awaiting trail instead of in a holding cell is because no one can say 'no' to Harry. Charging me with illegal possession of non-prescribed pain-killing potions is the only charge the ministry can really level at me. All the previous charges were found as unsubstantiated, though I'm sure everyone really knows what happened. It didn't take long for the ministry to pick up on the 'friendly fire' that killed Neville. Intentionally," she added, holding Stark's questioning gaze.

"You never finished telling me about that night with Neville."

She looked away as she responded to his comment. "You already know what happened, now you just know why."

"Not entirely," he countered as he shook his head.

"There's not much more to it. Besides," Hermione shifted in her seat to finger the edge of her sweater as she spoke, "there's no point in going over it now since that charge was dropped by the time the Phoenix ceremony took place."

"And yet, the papers still hounded you as a 'killer'," Stark said levelly.

Hermione's breath stilled for a moment, but she did not raise her eyes to his. Eventually, she swallowed and opened her mouth to respond, "Because I was. And they should have brought me before the ministry for his death," she ground out. "Harry never should have butted in." She gripped the edge of her sweater roughly, her brow furrowed in anger. "I don't give a damn what Harry wants. It wasn't right. It wasn't right."

Stark watched as she wiped at her eyes angrily, before glancing up at him steadily. He stayed silent as she went on.

"Harry has this stupid delusion that we played fair, that our side won because we never stooped to their level, we never used dark magic. He's such a fool," she spat. "There's no such thing as a clean war. And there will always be consequences for that. I should have taken them," she insisted, her voice rising as she jutted a finger to her chest. "I was prepared for that. I knew it. I had no delusions as to how messy this war could really get, but I was okay with getting my hands dirty if it meant he stayed alive. He never got that. He never understood. But I never cared about mercy or morals or respect on the battlefield. No, I didn't want to die," she bit out shakily. "But believe me, I would have killed anyone for Harry."

Stark watched as she forced herself to stop trembling, her fists balled tightly in her lap. There was no sign of tears or wetness near her eyes, but he was beginning to notice that that was common whenever the subject of Harry came up. Never a tear. Hermione slowly reigned in her breathing and reached back to brush her loose hair behind her ears. She lowered her hands to grip at the armrests of her chair, swallowing thickly. "Look...I don't...I had to do certain things for this war to turn out the way it should have but I never-"

"Why do you still say 'this' war?" he interrupted.

Blinking at him rapidly, Hermione glanced down to her scarred knee, then back up. "Because...it's still going."

"How?"

She scoffed. "Please. Don't play ignorant."

"No, I need you to relate everything you experience Ms. Granger, or I cannot understand." His gaze did not waver from hers.

Grounding her teeth together, Hermione let out a huff of air. "It's still in me. I know that much. And I think it's safe to say that it's still in Ron too. Harry and Remus and all the others." She looked away, her bottom lip started to tremble again. She bit it sharply. "Even Draco. God..." she choked, reaching a hand to her forehead. "Did you know that I was with him when Greyback had me?" she asked suddenly, looking at Stark with now red and watering eyes.

Stark shook his head silently.

"I was on a retrieval mission with Malfoy, when we were ambushed and they took both of us. I don't even remember where we were taken, the days are all mixed up" she spoke frantically, trying to grasp at memories she's still not sure she wants to remember, her voice breaking every so often. She hasn't even noticed the tears breaking at her lashes. "I think it was...something...something in the woods, or close to the woods, and Lucius Malfoy was there and D...Dolohov I think. Yes, I remember his face. He was there, with Rookwood and I saw them drag Malfoy away until I couldn't see them anymore and I didn't even care at that point because I felt Greyback's breath on my shoulder, and his claws on my neck and suddenly Malfoy was shrieking these... inhuman...blood-curdling screams and I didn't...I didn't..." Hermione stopped, sucking in sharp breaths, her hand at her chest as she gripped her sweater. The blood had left her knuckles and she struggled to bring words to her mouth as she opened and closed it in frantic breathes. Her eyes were shut tightly, but wetness shown from the corners, trailing a wet path down one cheek toward her chin. "I didn't know a man...could scream like that and still live." She swallowed thickly, pulling herself straighter in the chair as her voice steadied a bit more. "You know what, I don't want to talk about Malfoy anymore." She wiped her cheek dry.

"Fair enough," Stark consented. "Then how about you finish up about Neville?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed quickly. "There's nothing more to tell."

"Mr. Potter thinks there's more to the story than you're letting on."

"Harry's an idiot. I already told you that," she snapped, leaning back in the chair as she gripped the armrests once more.

"Mr. Potter advocated for your release," he countered, folding his hands in his lap.

"Because he still thinks sunshine and rainbows shoot out of my ass," she waved off bitterly. "And he's wrong. The alarm bells should have gone off when he admitted me in here," she waved around at the room. "Goddamn optimist."

"Then why did he stop visiting you 5 months ago?"

She clenched her jaw, staring defiantly at the doctor as he lounged in his leather armchair. "Maybe he's finally getting it now. God knows I love that boy - man...man I mean - but not everyone can be like him." Hermione shot her gaze to look at the floor. "Some of us will never get that far."

Stark leaned forward as he asked, "And how far are you, Ms. Granger?"

She raised her eyes to look at Stark and he was disappointed not to find them glaring at him. "Light years away. Harry and I aren't even in the same universe anymore."

"Perhaps he does not come to see you because you're still struggling with your short-term memory and he does not want to interfere. He still pays for your treatment, Ms. Granger. He has not given you up for failure yet. Why are you so quick to?"

Hermione furrowed her brows in confusion, not quite sure how to address the question. She moved to brush a hair behind her ear and opened her mouth in an attempt to make some sense. Mostly to herself. "Because...I've been gone for a long time now."

Stark cocked his head in question.

Bringing her fingers back to the edge of her sweater, Hermione pursed her lips in frustration, unable to put to words what had now seemed natural and unexplainable to her. "You see...it began with the night I killed Neville."

Blinking at her odd answer, Stark remained silent, hoping she would finally open up to the topic on her own.

"When I killed him, part of me went missing that night. And it didn't stop then." Hermione looked down at her hands. "Every morning I wake up farther from what I used to be. This isn't me. This isn't me at all," she cried, shaking her head. "And I don't know how to get that back."


	3. Session 9

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

Author's Note: I apologize greatly for the long delay in this chapter, though I doubt anyone has actualy remembered this piece, as I had left it alone for so long. But I will not leave it unfinished. There is simply a lot of crap going on with me right now, so again, sorry. However, I will make every effort to update sooner, as I have further sessions already in mind. Also, this chapter is a little bit more graphic, not explicit or anything, still T, but just fair warning. Thank you for reading. Enjoy.

This Isn't Me

"Session 9"

"_For the first time in her life, Hermione was overcome with a cold terror."_

Hermione remembers the night they almost lost Harry.

Some things she couldn't recall anymore. Not after the anadephamine took control. Her graduation from Hogwarts, her brief romance with Viktor Krum, the first spell she ever successfully cast, none of it was within her grasp anymore. But the night she lay awake waiting for Harry and Ron to return to Grimmauld Place with the scouting party they had left with to track down Bellatrix, that would never leave her.

She remembers finally getting up from her bed after three hours of restlessness and tiptoeing downstairs to the dining room. Molly had left out some biscuits and fruit on the table, probably knowing that someone would find their way down there in the midst of their anxiety. They hadn't had a check-in from Harry or Ron in over four hours. Arthur had urged everyone to get some sleep, reassuring them that everything was okay. Ron and Harry were probably close to Bellatrix's heels, he reasoned, closing in and thus mindful of using any magic that might tip her off to their presence. The explanation made sense, but in the backs of all their minds, the fear began to fester.

Sitting down at the head of the table, Hermione reached for a biscuit, and slowly began to pick it apart. She pulled small pieces off and then crushed it between her fingers to lay the crumbs along the table. She did this until the biscuit was no longer solid, and held her hand still over the pieces. Slowly, the crumbs began to knit themselves back together. Hermione had been practicing her wandless magic ever since she had been restricted from field work after the Greyback encounter. Dumbledore expressly forbid Hermione to join missions until she had been medically cleared to return. She still carried a limp from her healing injuries, though she was recuperating much faster than expected with the help of Cho Chang. Cho had enrolled in a medical study program shortly after graduating from Hogwarts, and as part of the Order, quickly became an invaluable asset as the main Healer in Grimmauld Place, and oftentimes, their field-medic.

Administering the potions and physical therapy that were required for Hermione's shattered hip to heal, Cho was the one who had to authorize her re-entry into field missions. She was also the closest one to Hermione when the nightmares began, and so Cho had become somewhat of an anchor when Harry and Ron were out on assignment. Oftentimes, the nightmares occurred while she was separated from the boys, which only further emphasized her feeling of isolation from them. All she could do was wait in sinking apprehension for their return. There were sometimes weeks in which she had no contact from them at all. Somewhere along the way, Hermione began to doubt her importance in this war. She felt more like a burden than an advantage. She could no longer protect her boys. Some small part of her that always felt needed by them, had slowly begun to die off inside her. This was not the person she had planned on becoming.

Hermione's thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the banging open of the front door. Snapping her head to the sound, Hermione quickly pushed herself up from the table, leaving the biscuit to scatter once more across the table. Her chair fell back behind her and she limped around it toward the hallway.

"Hermione!"

The choked sound of her name in Ron's deep timbre made her heart clench and swell at the same time, in some tangled mess of both relief and dread. Unbidden, her eyes began to water and she wiped at them quickly as she came through the threshold into the main hallway, her hip aching with the pain of sudden labor.

"Ron! Harry! Why didn't – ", her shaking voice silenced as her eyes came upon the collapsing figures in the shadow of the threshold. The first thing she noticed was the bright glistening of Ron's tearing eyes, his furrowed brow, the clenching of his teeth in barely held in pain.

The second was the blood. They were covered in it.

Ron was slouching under the weight of Harry's unconscious form, one arm wrapped around his back and the other gripping Harry's arm over his shoulders. Harry wasn't moving.

"Hermione!" Ron pleaded again, harsher this time, as he struggled to move forward, dragging Harry beside him.

But Hermione didn't hear him. She was completely focused on the thick trail of blood running down the right side of Harry's face, closing over his eye and streaming down the length of his chin. Her eyes followed the dripping blood and a sharp pain caught the breath in her throat as she saw the gaping wound over his right shoulder and chest. The flesh looked burned in some places, and in others, bright red pieces of muscle showed through the mutilated skin. It was a hole almost the size of a football, and she could see his entire shirt soaked with the blood gushing freely from it. It was already pooling on the floor below him.

Hermione caught sight of the bone at his shoulder that had been barred under the torn tissue and muscle. Bile rose to her throat quickly and she gripped the doorway where she stood to keep herself from retching right there at their feet.

"Hermione!" she heard once more, though this time it was a rough bark. "Damn it, Hermione! I –" Ron winced in pain and suddenly Hermione was aware of the dark swelling that began on his neck and continued on down underneath his collar where she saw a smaller blood stain coloring the front of his shirt. "I can't – hold him any…" Ron fell to one knee. "Get Cho!" He looked up to see Hermione still frozen in the hallway, her knuckles white where they gripped the doorway, one hand rising up to claw at her trembling mouth. It was too late.

She felt herself double over and heave into the corner of the hallway where she stood. It choked the air in her throat and she dragged in sharp breathes between heaves, her shoulders shaking with the effort to breathe. The tears were hot against her eyes and spilling over her cheeks. Suddenly, a terrible, inhuman wail scraped from her throat and she was screaming in between sobs.

Somewhere in the background, she registered the sound of racing footsteps and suddenly there were others in the hallway. People sprinting past her to grab hold of Harry and Ron. Dimly, she heard Arthur yelling something, Cho's sharp and piercing voice cutting over the other rising voices and scuffle of movement as both men were hauled off to the dining room. Gripping the front of her shirt and shaking with keening moans, Hermione raised her eyes to see Ron and Harry being carried past her into the dining room. She leant her head against the doorframe and watched as Remus swept a hand across the table, quickly, scattering the fruit and biscuits to the floor so that Harry could be laid across the top. Cho was already ripping the shirt from his mutilated torso and shouting at Luna to grab something from the cabinet.

Hermione glanced over to Ron, who had slumped into a dining room chair, pushing away the hands of others trying to access his injuries. He just kept saying, "Harry. Save Harry."

Hermione closed her eyes. Her heartbeat was thudding in her ears, her head throbbed with the cries coming from the dining room. Slowly, she tried to push herself up from the floor, leaning against the steady doorframe for support. She looked back to Ron and saw that he was looking at her, his head slumped against the back of his chair. His normally bright hair was browned with dirt and matted to his sweating forehead. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it quickly. He shook his head slowly, his eyes beginning to tear once more and Hermione recognized the motion of his lips mouthing "I'm sorry" before his hands were over his face and he was sobbing uncontrollably.

No, Hermione thought. Not Harry. Please, no, not Harry. Anything but that.

She couldn't tear her eyes from his bloody body lying across the tabletop. His blood was already staining the wood floor below him. There was just so much blood. There was…too much blood. Too much blood to pretend that it was going to be okay.

Hermione felt the bile rising once more, but gulped it back down, bringing her trembling hands up to cradle her head. Everyone was shouting. She couldn't hear Harry's breathing over the commotion. She couldn't hear him. Why can't everything be quiet? She only wanted to hear him breathing.

That helpless desperation, it was crawling up her throat again. All she could do was stand in the doorway sobbing as Cho raced to salvage anything she could of Harry. Someone rushed past her, jostling her as they raced through the doorway to the upstairs. She couldn't be bothered to notice who it was. Someone else was rummaging through the cabinets over the stove. She could hear a woman's voice trying to sooth Ron, though they were shaking themselves. He just kept repeating, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, save Harry."

It was a long time before Hermione could move from where she stood, and it was only once Molly grasped her shoulders and urged her from the room after several minutes had passed. It was all she could do to allow herself to be taken away. It was all she could do to stay conscious when what she wanted was to black out the world and forget the sight of Harry's body laying unmoving across the dining room table.

She found herself resting in an armchair in the study across the hallway. Molly was patting her forehead with a wet cloth, cooing soft words Hermione hadn't a mind to pay attention to. Eventually, Molly left the room, and Hermione sat there unmoving until the late hours of the night had come and taken away the shouting across the hall. The house was silent. Finally, Hermione thought, finally. She had to hear Harry's breathing. Had to know he was still with her. Without realizing what she was doing, she pulled herself from the chair and crept down the dark hallway toward the dining room. There wasn't even the sound of her footsteps. Suddenly, the silence wasn't so welcome.

Hermione saw the stairs ahead of her, and caught sight of Remus and Tonks curled up asleep on the landing above. A small light shown in from the window across from them, and the slight moon glow illuminated glistening streaks running the length of Tonks' cheeks, her head resting on Remus's shoulder. Even in sleep, he held his arms tight around her. Hermione averted her gaze as she approached the doorway to the dining room. There was the small puddle of vomit still lying in the corner of the hallway outside the doorframe. It was the least of their problems. Limping slightly, Hermione looked away from the puddle and into the dining room.

There was no one. And there was no body.

The cabinet above the stove had been left wide open, and Hermione could barely make out the bottles of potions and containers of herbs lining the shelves. A roll of gauze had fallen out and unraveled across the stove top and there were two shattered bottles across the floor below that. Her eyes followed the mess, the ruined fruit and biscuits across the wood floor, and moved to the empty table in the center of the large room. Two small windows let in just enough silver light from outside to discern the chairs pulled out from the long table, some lying on their backs as they had been throw aside in the commotion. They still lay there, unimportant. Hermione moved closer, and she could see the growing dark blotch covering the end of the wood, and below that, the deep red of the floor at her feet.

She made her way to the table, unable to stop her hand as it reached toward the dark-stained wood of the table. It was still damp. Her fingers grazed the surface and, raising them up to her sight, caught the light gleam of blood against her skin. She felt sick again.

In a silent sob, Hermione fell to her knees before the table, her hands landing in the small pool before her. Where was he? Where was Harry? This was his blood she felt between her fingers. Harry's blood. Oh god, please no.

She pulled in deep breathes through her aching lungs, and wrapped her arms around her, cradling her heaving chest. The hot tears were stinging her eyes once more.

"Hermione?"

The soft voice pulled a small gasp from her and she turned her head to see Ron slowly walking through the threshold, the tip of his wand alight with a _lumos_ spell. Upon seeing her huddled figure on the floor beside the table, Ron placed his wand on the counter top beside him, and slowly approached her, as though afraid she might bolt on him. In the meager light from his wand, she noticed the swelling on his neck was still there, though partly covered by a bandage. She could see the gauze that followed the wound to underneath his shirt. Cho had probably been too drained from helping Harry that there was little healing power left to attend to Ron. Knowing him, he probably refused anyway if it meant she had to tear herself from Harry's care.

"Hermione," he spoke once more, a gentle urge, and she felt her hands begin to shake. Her face fell into broken sobs, soundless but for her jagged breathing.

Ron knelt beside her, his knees now also touching the stain of Harry's insides on the floor. He reached a hand out to her shoulder and tried to turn her body to him. "Hermione, he's not…Harry's…"

She pulled a trembling hand from her curled form and wiped at her nose. "Where is he, Ron?" She was surprised at how the words escaped whole. She felt anything but.

Ron swallowed thickly. "He's upstairs."

"Is he…?" Hermione didn't want to finish that thought. _Couldn't_ finish that thought.

But Ron understood what she left unspoken. He always had. "No, Hermione. Cho's watchin' him."

Her face fell into tears once more, and she wiped at her cheeks, feeling so stupid for being incapable of anything but crying. This helpless, pathetic person wasn't who she remembered being.

Ron brought a hand to her face and wiped the matted hair from her wet cheeks. "She doesn't know if – well, Harry…," Ron had to turn her face towards his, force her to look at him. He leaned in closer. She _had_ to know. She _had_ to listen to him, no matter how he hated to say the words to her. "Cho doesn't know if Harry will…make the night."

Hermione's eyes closed, and she grabbed at the front of Ron's shirt. But Ron couldn't let her go yet. "Look at me, Hermione." When she shook her head, sobbing, he pulled her chin up to force her eyes on his. "Hermione. I need you to see." He could barely keep his voice from breaking. But he'd be damned if he lost her to this, too. Ron cleared his throat. "Hermione, please."

Her eyes fluttered open, wet with tears and he felt her grip tighten on his shirt. Unconsciously, she moved her body into his, and his arms moved to wrap around her reflexively. "We have to…we have to move to another safe house. They have Bill. I don't – I don't know if they'll make him talk."

Hermione could see the wetness beginning in Ron's own eyes. His own brother. Somewhere in her mind she realized how difficult this must be for Ron, but she couldn't stop her tears, couldn't stop her weak shaking. She wanted so much to wrap her arms around him and hold him to her, tell him everything was going to be okay, tell him that she'd figure this out. She wanted to tell him that she would save them. But she couldn't. She didn't know who that was anymore. She felt the old Hermione wailing inside the powerless husk she had become. Soon, she would become silent.

For the first time in her life, Hermione was overcome with a cold terror.

"Hermione? Do you understand what I'm saying?" Ron pulled himself away from her so that he could look down at her face.

Hermione simply stared at the ground, watching the salt of her tears mingle with the blood underneath them. She looked to her hands and noticed for the first time, the red stains she had left on Ron's shirt. She released the fabric instantly, turning her trembling hands so that her bloody palms faced up. This was Harry's blood, she kept thinking. She had Harry's blood on her hands. Her eyes lifted to watch Ron as the words rose up her throat. They tasted like bile. "I wasn't there for you."

Ron's brows furrowed and he tried to shake his head.

"Yes, Ron," she drew out softly. "I wasn't…I didn't protect you like I should have."

"No…Hermione…" Ron didn't know what to say, didn't know how to say that none of this was her fault. He didn't know how to tell her that he wouldn't know what he'd do if she had been there with them. The words didn't come to him. He couldn't tell her the things he knew he should say. How was he supposed to tell her that he was happy she had stayed back? How could Ron explain that in wanting to protect her, he had allowed her to be rendered powerless, something he knew she detested. But that wasn't her fault. They had only wanted to keep her safe. She wasn't supposed to feel guilty about that.

Ron didn't know what to say to Hermione to bring back that willful confidence he had loved for so long, so he gripped her bloodstained hands in his and pulled her to him once more. She buried her face in his sleeve and he held her head to him, cradling her body with his other arm.

"I wasn't there for you," she howled, her fingers digging into his chest. "I wasn't there!"

Ron rocked her in his embrace. "There, there," was all he could muster. And it felt so utterly inadequate. So completely futile. But he didn't know what to say. So he held her there, rocking her weeping form until the dim light of the sun had begun to reach through the window. Ron watched the dark stain below them grow bright in the strengthening light and he held her tighter to him. "Shh, there, there."

So completely futile.

"There, there."

* * *

"That was when I decided."

Dr. Stark's eyes bore into Hermione's as he listened to her, enraptured. "When you decided what, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione held her arms tight to her chest, but her stare was cold and remote. "That I would do whatever it took – _whatever_ it took – to keep Harry alive. That I was not going to be helpless ever again. And that I could live with the blood on my hands, if only it meant that Harry didn't."

Stark leaned back in his seat, sighing heavily. "Were you really okay with that? Did you understand what that decision meant when you made it?"

"Yes, Stark," Hermione answered, her voice steady. "Because Harry was the best of us. Would always be the best of us. And I had to keep that safe. That's why Neville's dead. Because I killed him rather than watch Harry die." Hermione took a deep breath, adjusting herself in the seat as she turned to look out the window beside them. "You see, Stark, I can still feel it in my bones, that desperate helplessness. I feel it through every second of consciousness. I wonder if I've done enough. I wonder if I've done too much. And I don't think any kind of pain-relieving potion can mask the pain I feel when I wake up every morning wondering if Harry has forgiven me. If Harry _can_ forgive me. But then I remember," she chuckles, the threat of tears lining her voice. She brought her stare back to Stark.

"Harry has always been the best of us."


	4. Session 11

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

Author's Note: I'm slowly trying to explain everything without being too cryptic and without sounding like a textbook summary of the past. So here it is, the beginning of Hermione's downfall. Tell me if it works. I hope you enjoy.

This Isn't Me

"Session 11"

"_There hadn't been anything civilized about them for years."_

"Ms. Granger, can you tell me about what happened March 3, 2003?"

Hermione furrowed her brow in concentration for a moment, fingering the bottom of her thick sweater. She was sitting on the plush purple armchair once more, her cane resting idly against it. She looked to the ground as her mind raced through days and nights that were no longer in her mind's grasp. She bit her lip in frustration, not wanting to alert Stark to the fact that she couldn't remember the day he spoke of.

After a few moments of silence, however, Stark ventured another hesitant question. "Do you know the date I'm speaking of?"

Hermione's gaze lifted to his, unsure and perturbed. Seeing that he was genuinely worried at her silence, she blew a reluctant sigh from her lips. "I'm not good with dates, Stark. You know that."

"Yes, well, I had hoped perhaps certain things were returning to you."

"Certain things are, just not dates and other such particulars." She dropped the sweater from her fidgeting hands and readjusted herself in the armchair. "I can remember scenes and events, and people, though not all of them. But the order in which they happened in my life is a little fuzzy," she finished, reaching a hand up to her temple to rub at the skin tenderly.

Dr, Stark's eyes softened at the look of the frustrated woman in front of him. He wanted her memories to reorder themselves as much as she did. She was the last person he'd wish such a thing to. But he didn't get to choose his patients' conditions. This was how they came to him. And he could only hope that they came out just a little more whole when he was done with them. "Would you be able to tell me about a certain memory if I prompted you as to what it was?"

Hermione raised a brow in his direction. "Such as?"

"Such as the Order of Merlin ceremony."

Hermione's shoulders bunched in as to shelter her. "Oh," was all she could muster.

"Yes. March 3, 2003. What happened during the ceremony?"

"I…" Hermione found she couldn't look away from him. "I don't remember all of it, just…just the parts that are probably already in your file on me." She motioned toward the manila folder lying unopened on his desk.

Stark stared at her silently a moment before answering, "Take your time then."

Hermione ground her teeth. "I'd really rather not, thank you."

Sighing, Stark pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Well, if that was how she wanted this to go then so be it. "It's not a matter of you wanting, Ms. Granger," he responded firmly.

She still didn't answer, crossing her arms instead.

"But I cannot help you unless you let me," he implored.

She turned her silent gaze resolutely to the plant in the corner. That stupid constant plant.

"Ms. Granger…"

"You know it was when they first called me 'killer'." Her eyes flashed when she glanced back to the doctor. "When they first dragged my name through dirt and worse."

"Yes, I know. I know the facts. But I don't know what happened in _your_ mind." He raised his brows toward her. "It makes all the difference _You_ make all the difference, Ms. Granger."

Hermione drew in a deep breath, watching Stark in his silent appraisal of her. Was this the Gryffindor she used to be? This coward? Somehow they seemed light years away. No, this wasn't her. This wasn't the Hermione she remembers being.

She swallowed thickly as she looked at him. "I was in the wheelchair already by that point. It had only been four months since Voldemort was killed."

Stark noticed how her posture and voice never faltered on the mention of the dark Lord's name. He wondered if it ever had. Somehow, he figured the name never held much weight with her anyway. He decided to wait silently for her to continue.

"It was Harry, Ron and I up on that podium. And I needed the wheelchair because Rodolphus' curse was still blazing down my leg. I think I even wore…some kind of blanket over my knees. I didn't want my legs to be seen. They didn't deserve that bit of publicity." She bit out the last part, her memory of the accusing crowds and probing reporters still vivid behind her lids.

She closed her eyes at the memory. She didn't want to be there in the first place. Hermione knew she didn't deserve the honor. She knew the blood she had spilt in the war, and she didn't think it right to be honored after that. But Ron had begged her. Shaking and stuttering, Ron had nervously implored her to go with him and Harry to the ceremony. It would be the first time Ron entered the public's eye willingly after Voldemort's death. Only Hermione and Harry understood Ron's sudden withdrawal from the public. He had been with them in the last moments, those terrible dark seconds where Ron had wished for death.

It would have been a mercy then.

Immediately after the battle, Ron had left for a good month. To where, Hermione and Harry still don't know but they had received owls from him alerting them that he was safe but in need of distance from his home and the memories of the war. They all knew what that felt like, and they had left him to himself. After the first month, he finally returned to the Burrow and had been holed up there for the three months leading up to the Order of Merlin ceremony.

Just two weeks before the ceremony, a private honor had been bestowed on certain individuals recognized for their sacrifice in the war against Voldemort, most of them members of the Order. It was a newly ordained rank of Phoenix, a decoration created by the new Ministry of Magic awarded to those "who performed acts of valor in the name of the civilized wizarding community". Hermione remembers scoffing at the presentation of the award. There hadn't been anything civilized about them for years.

It had been a private presentation however, with only recipients and their family members present. The new rank had yet to reach public attention. The Order of Merlin honoring ceremony, however, was anticipated by all members of the wizarding community. There had been an auditorium within the Ministry building reserved for the event and there were a couple thousand in the audience, a small section just before the stage filled with reporters. Ron had almost had a panic attack at the idea. He told her that he could only attend if she were there with him. And if only for his family, he wanted to be there to receive the award, but he had no illusions about his current emotional state. It had taken Ron nearly half an hour of constant, unrelenting pleading until he finally wore her down and convinced her to attend the event. Until then, she had been happy to have someone receive the award in her stead and read about it in the papers afterward. Besides the feeling of it being an undeserved honor, there was still a bit of vain pride left in her that didn't want the masses to see her in a wheelchair.

It turned out to be the least of her problems.

Shortly after being released from the hospital after the final battle with Voldemort, Hermione had been prescribed the pain-killing potion anadephamine. It was the beginning of an addictive dependency that stole months from her life that she would never get back.

She arrived at the ceremony a bit late, almost missing the introduction by the Minister of Magic, and Harry had eyed her the entire time. They were all seated to the left of the stage, only slightly obscured to the masses by the podium and extravagant decorations. Hermione took her place next to Harry and Ron, the rolling of her wheelchair only slightly jerky.

Harry knew something was wrong.

Neither he nor Ron had known about the anadephamine at this point, and it was getting more difficult for Hermione to hide the fidgeting and absent shaking of her hands. Harry watched her eyes darting around the room rapidly, her cheeks flushed and breathing irregular. Just before the presentation of the award Harry bent down and leaned over Ron, who was between them, to peer at her.

"Hermione."

Her eyes shot to his and she knew there would be no more hiding at this point.

Harry swallowed thickly, taking in her wide eyes at his stare. He narrowed his eyes but didn't say anything else, just continued to watch her as he leaned in his chair. When she didn't answer him, he slowly began nodding. "We need to leave," he breathed.

Ron was glancing between the two of them, his breathing picking up as he recognized the first inklings of a panic attack in the tightening of his chest. He closed his eyes to focus his breathing. What were they doing?

Hermione began to shake her head. "Harry no, we can't. They're in the middle of the presen-"

"I don't give a shit what they're doing. There's something you're not telling me. Something's not right," he finished determinedly.

And hell if Harry didn't know her better than anyone. She knew she'd never be able to pull this off.

Harry glanced at the podium that Kingsley was standing behind, giving a speech. He turned back to Hermione. "Meet me at the Burrow."

Hermione knew he was about to apparate out of the building when she shot her hands to his clumsily, half lying over Ron. "Harry, no!" she exclaimed in a harsh whisper. "I can't-" she bit back her rushed reply.

People in the audience started noticing the movement of the recipients seated by the stage. She looked to them quickly, then back to Harry. Ron was gripping his chair, trying not to listen to the whispers in the audience that he knew were about them. A quiet place, that's where he needed to be. He nervously ran his fingers along the wood of his chair, and squeezed his eyes tightly together.

Hermione noticed Ron's anxiety setting in and she looked between him and Harry, her fingers trembling over Harry's.

He noticed. Looking down at her hands he asked, "You can't what?"

Hermione closed her eyes and immediately felt a wave of dizziness hit her. "I can't apparate. I…am not able to right now," She whispered finally, eyes still closed to the world. Maybe if she didn't open them she wouldn't have to look at that piercing green of Harry's eyes. She wouldn't have to tell him.

Harry ground his teeth together. "I don't know what's going on with you Hermione but this was a bad idea. We need to go. _Now_. Before the press sees you or Ron like this."

Between them, Ron had started hyperventilating.

It was just then that they heard an angry bellow coming from the crowded audience. Every head turned to see the form of Seamus Finnigan standing in the middle of the auditorium, one accusatory finger jutted at the stage and his other hand curled into a tight fist at his side. His body thrummed with restrained rage and his eyes flashed angrily at those seated to the left of the stage. Hermione saw his eyes land on hers and she felt something sink inside of her. His eyes narrowed, his nostril flaring.

This was the beginning of the end, she remembers thinking, her hands coming up to cover her face.

Seamus took a deep breath after his initial roar and swung his finger over to point at Hermione's curling form, his voice filling the silent auditorium with a shaking fury. "I'll die before I see that _bitch_ get awarded for MURDER!" he screamed.

Harry shot up from his seat and Ron gripped his chest, curling in on himself as the panic attack set in. All around them the auditorium burst into whispers and outcry.

"She killed Neville Longbottom!" Seamus cried, rage twisting his features into something harsh and unfamiliar to Harry.

Hermione sat behind him crying into her hands.

Suddenly, people were on their feet in defense of Hermione, the crowd bursting into shouts and demands. There was a scuffle around the seats Seamus stood from, where he was suddenly yanked back into the crowd and hordes of people began coming at him, reporters and journalists racing through the burgeoning aisles to get his statement, get a picture, get anything of this sudden explosive madness in the hall.

Kingsley was shocked for a moment, standing in silence as the shouts in the room escalated, until his voice rang out once more to calm the masses. Before he got more than two sentences out, a man jumped onto the stage and, casting a quick _sonorus_, his voice broke the sudden chaos. "It's true! I was there!"

All eyes shot to the man atop the stage, Harry's narrowing as he suddenly recognized Terry Boot.

"She's a killer!" shouted another voice from the now still audience, this one feminine. Harry quickly identified it as Katie Bell. Whispers began from the crowd once more as Aurors rushed in from the exits to control the growing mass of angry citizens. Kingsley found his voice again, turning to pull Terry from the stage as he tried to calm the crowd once more, asking them to return to their seats. Terry struggled against the arms of Kingsley and the other Auror to climb onto the stage and pull him down.

"Ask any Order member who was there that night! I'm telling you she killed him in cold bl-" his screams were cut off by a quick _silencio_ from Kingsley.

Harry saw Katie Bell pushing through the crowds, her finger jutting out to point angrily at the rocking form of Hermione beside the stage. "It wasn't Death Eaters! It was her! Hermione Granger killed Neville! I saw the _Avada Kedavra_ she threw at him! I saw it! I saw him-" her voice had been cut off quickly as well, two Aurors grabbing her by the arms and pulling her through the aisles now crowded with people.

But the damage had been done. There was an abrupt shift in the mass of people as everyone seemed to lunge toward the stage at once. Reporters and audience members alike clambered up the stage and through the aisles to get to the Golden Trio, shouts and cries of anger echoing loudly throughout the walls of the auditorium.

The rage was deafening to Hermione's ears. She hadn't moved from her sobbing position but when she saw Ron next to her fall to the floor and grip his chest as he curled into a fetal position, the panic completely overwhelming him, she pushed herself from her wheelchair to drop on the floor next to him. She cried out in pain as her cursed and throbbing leg fell beneath her weight. She grit her teeth, reaching out her shaking hands to pull Ron's shoulders to her, dragging him to her lap. She looked up to see Harry standing before them, his wand in his hand as throngs of people pushed toward him screaming and waving fists through the air. She could hear shouts of restraining spells being sent toward the crowd by the line of Aurors coming between them and the hysterical mob. She turned her gaze to watch some of the other recipients beside her. Most were shocked into stillness, gripping the arms of their chairs.

Others leapt beside Harry. Tonks, Remus and Arthur yanked their wands from their robes and joined the Aurors to block the throng of people from Hermione and Ron's crumpled forms on the floor. Hermione watched Ginny's fists shaking beside her as she sat in the chair beside Hermione's wheelchair, staring resolutely at the floor.

"Get your ass up Weasley!" she heard Draco yell to Ginny as he rushed from his seat with the other recipients toward them. He grabbed Ginny by the collar and yanked her up, pushing her wand into her hand. "Get them out of here!" She nodded hesitantly, turning to look at Harry. She couldn't look at Hermione in that moment.

"Potter!"

Harry glanced back to see Draco come up next to him, standing between Hermione and the raging mass of people. "Get them back!"

Harry only needed to be told once. He turned around to grab Hermione and Ron just as Kingsley made it to them through the pushing and screaming crowd. "To the Burrow!" he yelled over the intense noise of the hall just before he apparated himself. Harry gripped Hermione and Ron to take them with him.

As she felt the familiar tug of disapparation in her stomach, Hermione looked up from Harry's arms. The last thing she saw was Draco's burning gaze on hers. And no amount of pain-relieving potion could ever make her forget those eyes.

* * *

"Why do you think what stays with you the most from that day is the look Mr. Malfoy gave to you?"

Hermione looked at Stark as he leaned back in his chair. "Because he knows. Because we both know. We found it together in that forest when we though death had come to us in the form of Greyback."

Stark found he couldn't look away from Hermione. "What did you find, Ms. Granger?"

She pulled her gaze from his and leveled it on the floor sadly. There was no resistance to her voice now, only a tired resignation. "The truth about war, and about ourselves. We're survivors. That's what we do. And Malfoy has enough blood on his hands himself to understand what that means." She chuckled darkly, rubbing her hands down her arms. She looked to the window on the other side of the room. It was blazing sun outside. "He's the only one that knows me like that. He knows me in ways I'm ashamed to tell Harry and Ron about." Her voice shook slightly. "I don't think…they'd understand that."

"And Seamus Finnigan? Terry Boot and Katie Bell? What of them?"

Hermione drew in a breath as she looked back to Stark. "They were at Grimmauld Place when I killed Neville. They were telling the truth. They saw me send an _Avada Kedavra_ at him, just after the Death Eaters broke our defenses."

Stark furrowed his brow, folding his hands together over his lap. "But Harry and Ron were there as well. And so were the Order members you just mentioned who jumped to your defense at the ceremony. So why the split?"

Hermione sighed, gripped herself tighter. "Because Harry and them saw what really happened. They don't like the choice I made. But they defend me because they all know it's the choice they could never make themselves. The defend me because I was willing to kill when they weren't. And it saved their lives." She shook her head, her brows knitting together. "Because I felt the ends justified the means. And because my betrayal of what we stood for, of all the principles we tried to live by, was the only thing that ensured our success."

Stark regarded her for a silent moment, not wanting to interrupt her as she relived the memories, hoping this would bring some kind of grounding for her.

"You see, Stark, this was a dirty war. And while I never wanted Harry to feel the guilt of killing, I didn't think it was fair for the Order to sit on its pedestal of morals and let him walk into danger unequipped. That's why I made that decision. That's why I vowed to never be helpless again." She leaned forward slightly. "I meant it when I said it was worth it. There are few people who I find to be worth it. Harry's one of them."

"And who are the others? Who would you kill for Hermione Granger?"

Hermione bit her lip, leaning back into her armchair. She reached a hand out to touch the top of her cane resting against the arm of her chair.

Cocking his head in her direction, Stark spoke softly. "Or rather, who _have_ you killed for?"

Hermione kept her hand on the cane a moment longer before meeting Stark's stare. "Ron. In the last moments before Harry killed Voldemort. I killed Rodolphus Lestrange for Ron. Not even for myself. But I would kill for Ron…and," her voice grew soft, her touch leaving the cane and wrapping in on herself. She looked back out the window. "And I've killed for Malfoy – _Draco_ – I've…killed for Draco. And I'd do it again."

Stark's brows furrowed as he unfolded his hands. "That wasn't in your file."

"It wouldn't be."

He eyed her a moment longer, uncrossing his legs as he leaned toward her. "What exactly is it between you and Mr. Malfoy?"

Hermione felt a sad smile work its way to her lips when she glanced at Stark with watering eyes. "Ask me that some other day. And I promise, I'll answer." She wiped at her eyes then, taking in a deep breath as she adjusted herself on the plush cushion.

Nodding slightly, Stark decided to follow her request. He could not expect her to divulge everything so soon. But he had patience. He would make it past the shaky memories and false guilt one day. One day he would see who the real Hermione Granger is.

He cleared his throat. "You never told me _why_ you killed Neville. Not really."

Hermione looked at her hands for a while, the lingering wetness gone form her eyes. She licked her lips, glancing at the clock above the coffee table, swallowing the knot of words in her throat. "Because…" she stopped, swallowed once more to steady her shaking voice. "Because he would have killed Harry."

"How?"

"Bellatrix cast a Berserker curse on Neville. He would have…" Hermione sighed, wiping a hand down her face. She looked back out the window. The sun was so goddamn bright. "Death was a kindness."


End file.
